Self Portrait

My creator looks at herself in the mirror
But does not see anything she likes
On the days I am the mirror
I know she would stitch herself
A suit made of my skin

My siblings powder their faces
And draw on new body parts
With fountain pens and sticky
Markers, the ink doesn’t easily
Come off but I think that’s the point

I try the practice, using ink instead
Of love and make myself look more
Like a monster than I ever have before
It’s a fine art to be comfortable with
Changing ones self every day

I was born in these sleeves and well
Fill my malformations, and the crooked
Smile on my face is a uniqueness I’d rather
Not replace, yet I draw on a new face
To understand it, but I do not

The mask weighs me down as it
Weights them and I see now why
They are always looking at their
Shoes, instead of at the stars
And that’s where it starts

Until they are nothing more than
Sacking tied with cord, full of
Misconceptions and harsh words
To describe the process, of rearranging
Their worth

And that is why my shoes are hanging
In the sky, and my mirror is broken
And I don’t mind that one bit,
Cause at least the pair I have
Is one that fits

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